50 Years Ago Today - January 5, 1975 - The Rear Tire Blowout Incident

– adapted from my memoir: ‘Sea Stories And Other Lies’ (2023)

My second cousin Barry offered to let me keep my motorcycle at his house in Escondido while I was away for our next Westpac, which was planned for about six months. But in the US Navy, one never knew when you might really return stateside.

I had been giving rides to his kids, my third cousins, during my visits to Escondido, and when he heard about this next Westpac, he wanted to know what I was going to do with my motorcycle.

My co-worker, McCain had investigated and found a place for us to store his and my bike. It was a place near the shipyard that catered to military personnel going overseas. But cousin Barry would not hear of it. He insisted that I keep my bike in his garage while I was gone for the six to nine months, and that was that.

So, in the late Sunday afternoon of January 5, 1975, shipmate Jerry Robinson rides with me to Escondido to drop off my bike. Barry’s son, my third cousin Scott, will be giving us a ride back to the ship. On Interstate 15, about halfway there, my back tire blows out while I’m doing 80 miles an hour with Robinson on the back.

And just like you’ve done a nonconscious “tuck-and-roll” when falling unexpectedly, and afterward realizing that you once had heard all about doing a tuck-and-roll when falling but had never consciously done one, I nonconsciously steered my bike, turning the front wheel left and then right, through multiple sequences, as the back end of the bike whipped back and forth multiple times.

I yelled back at Robinson to “hang on to the bike.” I don’t know why I yelled that or how I knew that that’s what both he and I should do.

Instincts were kicking in left and right as I steered left and right, left and right, left and right, left and right. As the bike slowed from 80 mph to about 30, it went down on its left side. I hung on, but Robinson let go. I was riding the bike as we slid off the concrete and onto the asphalt shoulder and gently hit the curb, stopping us from going completely off the road and into a ravine that ran alongside the roadway.

I was stunned. As I started to pick myself up off the road, I saw that Robinson was not on the road with me. I yelled out, “Jerry, are you okay!?!” He yelled back, laughing, “I’m okay!”

We both started laughing, although we couldn’t see each other. I finally picked myself up off the shoulder and walked over to the edge, where I could see Robinson lying in the ravine. He was laughing uncontrollably. I noticed that a couple of cars were pulling off the road behind us, and then I noticed that the roadway shoulder had quarters strewn across it. People were jumping out of their cars and running up to us. They had witnessed the whole thing, from the tire blowing, sending the back end of the bike into a frenzied whipsaw, and then when we slowed, Robinson came off the bike, hitting the curb, flying through the air, and then disappearing over the road’s shoulder.

Some rushed up to me, others went over the shoulder’s curb and down into the ravine and helped Robinson back to the road. He was bleeding through the holes in his shirt and his pants, the thin Navy dungarees we wore when working. And you could see the black grains of the asphalt from the road’s shoulder embedded in his shoulder, arms, and legs.

Somebody asked about all of these quarters strewn across the Interstate’s shoulder. Poor sailors carried rolls of quarters back in the day to make phone calls with, and both Robinson’s and mine had come out of our pockets and were being recovered by the good samaritans who had stopped to help, who had been horrified by what they witnessed, and then fairly relieved at our good fortune. Well, my good fortune.

Robinson was bleeding, but not too badly. But he was hurting.

I had a slight bruise on one leg, and my thin Navy dungaree’s back left pocket, where I kept my wallet, had worn through, as had the wallet, and one could see the dollar bills inside without opening the wallet up. I had ridden on my left hip on that wallet and escaped any serious injury.

The bike was in fair shape, although not rideable, with that flat rear tire. The good citizens gathered up all of the quarters, gave them to me, and decided to take Robinson to a nearby Fire Station just off the Interstate highway for immediate medical attention. I wrote my cousin Scott’s name and phone number down for Robinson to call and explain our situation and ask Scott to bring his panel van to pick us up.

I waited for several hours on that shoulder and explained to those few cars that stopped to see if I needed help that help was already on the way; thank you very much. Scott finally arrived in the darkness and helped me load the motorcycle into the back of his van. Then we searched for an hour for that local Fire Station, as there were two possibilities, San Diego Fire Department Station 33 and 42, to find Robinson.

The firefighters directed us to the second Fire Station, where those firemen directed us to a local hospital where they had sent Robinson, and that’s where we retrieved him after waiting hours and hours. We made a poor decision to first take the motorcycle to Scott’s house and then have him take us to the ship. Robinson was in great pain on the drive as we walked across the Naval Base at 32nd Street in San Diego to our pier and our ship after Scott dropped us off. We walked up the gangway, turned and saluted the flag, and then turned to salute the Officer of the Deck, saying, “Sir, request permission to come on board, sir.” “Come on board. What the hell happened to you?”

The ship was in a flurry of activity on board and on the pier. We were pulling away in 15 minutes. It was Monday, January 6, 1975, and 0545. We were that close to “missing ship’s movement” and “a world of shit,” as the saying went.

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